AN: This has canon roots-in Year One (my Scarecrow bible), he does try to murder his father, who fears insects. Batman interrupts. Seeing as this is Doctor Crane, who crosses state lines to track down people to murder, I doubt that was the end of it.

McStaken-Eh, Jay's fine. Well. Not dead, which is a big deal for him. If he promises to behave, I'll even throw in a get-out-of-Wayne-Manor-without-seeing-Bruce free card! God, please. I'll do anything. ANYTHING.

Forbidden Moons-My toxin is EVERYONE'S personal 'IT', child. Todd merely has the misfortune to suffer the classic version. Still a silent one, though...I'd hoped that was a side effect of childhood. Clearly not.

Clearly, Jonathan thinks, he did not get his brains from his father. The man is still in Gotham. Oh, Jonathan's certain that if asked, he'll say something about 'not being chased out', but the only explanation is blind stupidity.

That's fine. Less effort on his part.

He'll give the man a little credit. He locks his doors and windows. Not that it matters. This is Gotham, a Life Skill is lock picking. He's pretty sure they teach it in first grade.

Gerald's apartment is not interesting. It's stark, with several phone chargers heaped in a plastic box on the table, blueprints stacked neatly nearby, and an empty frozen dinner box on the counter.

Jonathan is not impressed.

"Well, I can see where you get your cooking skills from." Kitty says from the kitchen. "I always wondered."

"Thanks so much, Kitty."

She blows him a kiss and clambers onto the counter.

"This cupboard is ninety percent coffee mugs." she informs him. "He's certainly your father. I was beginning to wonder."

He ignores that one and wanders into the other room. Television. Handful of war fiction novels (ugh). Pile of magazines that he has no desire to touch. Bed.

Karen (oh, that's not over either, he'll track her down soon enough and make her sorry) clearly has terrible taste.

No matter. This black mark on his family tree will soon be gone. Then there's just the last two and this will all be behind him.

He returns to the main room and picks up the backpack he brought with him. Inside is a small stack of boxes containing various types of insects-small brown beetles, a few moths, a handful of crickets, two giant water bugs (and oh, those were a nightmare-heh-to get here, but worth it) and a tarantula hawk.

Gerald, as far as he knows, should be back soon. Another hour, perhaps, if he keeps to this last week's schedule. Not that it really matters-they're here now, they can wait.

He brings the backpack over to the couch and sets it within easy reach before sitting down. Kitty curls against him, one eye on the pack. Soft scritching noises can be heard now and then.

"You don't have to stay."

"I'm fine. I just don't want to touch them, that's all."

"Fair enough."

He's glad she's going to stay here. Call it sentiment, whatever.

Sap.

Family reunions are hard for me, Scarecrow.

Whatever. Hey, does he have food? I'm hungry.

Too bad.

YOU FORGOT TO BRING SNACKS, DIDN'T YOU.

I deliberately did not bring snacks.

YOU MONSTER.

He ignores Scarecrow and turns his attention to the door. Tick-tock, tick-tock…

Gerald is half an hour late, but he does eventually come shuffling in, cracking his neck and grumbling about idiot drivers. Should've taken the train…

"Hello, Gerald."

"JESUS-no. No, no-"

"Yes." Ah, that expression of utter horror. It's a special one that can only be made by those who came home to what was supposed to be an empty house. He loves it. "Sit down, please."

"Like hell." Well, well. He's got a gun. What a deterrent. Truly. "Get out."

"Is that any way to talk to your own child?" If there's some bitterness in his voice, well, he can't help that. "Really, I hope you don't have any more running around…now. Sit. Down."

The hand holding the gun is shaking. Really, if you're going to have one, you may as well be confident in your abilities.

"You're not my child."

"Oh, I wish that were true. Come now, Gerald. Sit. I insist. Unless you want another sample of my work…did you know that my last three subjects killed themselves rather than face their fears?" He adjusts his sleeve around the mechanism there. "One flung herself out of a twelve-story window. Ended up impaled on the fence below. Tragic."

"What do you want?" He's not sitting, but the gun is going down. Wise decision. Nervous trigger fingers are dangerous trigger fingers.

Jonathan smiles at him. He's well aware that it's not a nice smile.

"We didn't really talk last time, did we? That's all. Just to talk. To straighten some things out." Gerald sits. Well, well, look at that, he's not completely brain-dead. "Thank you. Now. The gun, please. I don't want you hurting yourself."

He doesn't hand it over, but he does put it down. It will do for now.

Kitty straightens up and he doesn't have to look to know she's drawn her own gun out of her coat. It's always nice to have that extra insurance.

"This is for your own good, Father." he says, straightening his glasses and leaning forward. "I'm a doctor. Did you know that? I doubt it, God knows you did your best to pretend you didn't have a son, but I have been in the news a bit."

"What do you want?" Just like all the others-repeat the same question in hopes of getting a better answer. Human nature, he supposes-haven't they all lowered their standards before returning to the fridge?

He sighs and lowers his head, reaches for the backpack.

"As I said earlier, just to talk. Think of it as a free therapy session. You were so…upset…the last time we saw each other. I was concerned." Ah! Here they are, brown beetles. Perfect to start with. Harmless. "And, of course, I wanted to ask if you'd developed a fear of heights after that last meeting."

"Go to Hell."

I'LL SEND HIM THERE.

WAIT.

"I've been, thank you."

He draws the box from the backpack and sets it gently on his lap, drums his fingers against the sides to get them moving. Gerald, predictably, flinches and draws back into the chair. Jonathan chuckles and fiddles with the clasp on the lid.

"How far back does this particular phobia go, hm? Did you wake up with walking stick halfway down your ear? Fall onto an anthill? Tell me. Confession, I understand, is good for the soul."

"You sick bastard-"

"You're not wrong. But we've had this discussion. Answer my question."

Gerald's sweating a bit now, hands flexing against the arms of the chair. Such a sudden, strong reaction…trauma, then. Well, well.

"I don't remember."

"Oh, I think you do." He stands up, box cradled in his hands, and crosses the distance between them. The gun is gently nudged aside and he circles the chair, stops just behind the man (optimum position for inducing feelings of powerlessness). "And you're going to remember, or I'll drag it out of you by force."

He rattles the box and one of the beetles flicks its wings out, flies against the plastic with a hearty WHAP!

Gerald bolts, or tries to. He's barely out of the chair when Kitty raises the gun.

"Sit. Down."

Fear of imminent death trumps fear of insects, apparently, because Gerald goes back down, legs shaking and head craned to stare at the box in Jonathan's hands.

"Thank you, Kitty…now. Think, if you can. Answer me, and this will hurt much less. Keep resisting, and I'll shove these down your throat."

"What happened to you?" Ah, an attempt to distract him, or perhaps appeal to his humanity. Pity he's not here to find a father he never had. "Jonathan-"

Pathetic.

He plunks the box on Gerald's lap, ignoring the sudden whine, and grips his neck, aims his other hand at his face. The man can see the mechanism, he's sure. He's also sure he knows what it is.

"Don't. Call me. That."

"Please-"

"Go ahead. Plead. That never worked for me."

"I'm sorry, I had no idea you even-"

Enough.

He moves his hand, hears the soft click of activation. This is an older batch, one he's long grown immune to, but the average civilian should suffer as per usual.*

Gerald, unsurprisingly, is average. The cloud has barely enveloped his face before his eyes widen and his throat tenses beneath Jonathan's hand. He jerks, trying to dislodge the box, and Scarecrow digs his nails into his skin.

"Come on, then. Scream. Scream!"

Gerald bucks again, sending the box to the floor. The lid pops free and the beetles scatter. Several of them skitter up the man's pants, provoking a bout of screaming and flailing. Scarecrow dodges a leg and leans down catches one would-be escapee, and drops it down his shirt.

The results are sudden and violent-Gerald's hands fly up, clawing at his shirt, and Scarecrow steps back in a hurry, crosses to the backpack. Now, now, where is that-ah! Tarantula hawk. Go big or go home, that's his motto. Well, one of 'em. He'd get that one cross-stitched if Jonny wouldn't pitch a fit.

Gerald's jerking now, clawing at himself. The beetle skitters across his face and flits off, but not before he drags his nails down his cheeks, peeling strips of skin off with them.

Heh, looks like zoodles. But, uh, skin. Skoodles.

…I'll never be able to eat those again.

So.

They were fine.

HIPSTERRRRRRR.

"GOD! GOD GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF!"

The screaming upsets the tarantula hawk, sets it buzzing furiously against the sides of the container. He's not lettin' that one out-got stung once already-but the blipblipblip noise draws Gerald's eye just fine.

"NO! NO! GET IT AWAY FROM ME!"

"Aww, it wants to say hi!" He rattles the box teasingly. "Go on, now, say hello!"

Gerald does not say hello. Gerald shrieks and swats at the box. Scarecrow yanks it away and wags a finger.

"Ah, ah, ah! You didn't say the magic word!"

Great, that'll be in my head for a year now.

"PLEASE NO!"

Eh. Scarecrow'll take what he can get-

"Scarecrow." WHAT. "Coppers."

Figures he'd have the one concerned neighbor in town. Move. I'll finish up.

But, but…

Jonathan sighs, tightens his grip on the box, and leans over the still-thrashing Gerald. Sure enough, there's sirens in the distance, getting closer. Shame.

"Our time is up." he says, flicking at a beetle that's landed on his sleeve. "Shame…ah, well."

"PLEASE GOD-"

He makes a show of looking around the room before setting the wasp's box down and pulling the other containers from the backpack.

"I suppose he's on the other line…pity. For you."

Moths first-they flutter straight into the lamp. Typical. The crickets follow, and the water bugs…don't really do anything. He settles for actively picking them up and placing them ever so gently on Gerald's face.

This proves to be the catalyst-the screams stop abruptly. So does the twitching.

"Is he dead?" Kitty lowers the gun. The sirens are almost here-they'll have to take the fire escape. Jonathan crouches down and picks up the nearest wrist.

"Mm-hm." He drops it, watches it bounce on the cheap carpet. "Good riddance."

Now that the screams have stopped, the apartment is eerily silent. His ears are ringing a little.

But it's over.

THE END

*Also canon! Kinda. He's not wearing his mask when he poisons Gerald in the original comic, though whether he's immune or the cloud is too small or what is unmentioned. (Doesn't seem to be a gas mask in that thing, so…)